The Perfect Night In
by Busman's Holiday
Summary: Ste arrange "the perfect night" in for him and Rae in an attempt to make a fresh start but it doesn't go to plan when Brendan turns up.


The Perfect Night In

A splash of red wine and little bits of carrot. That was the trick. Tony taught me that. I never bothered to make some of the poncier dishes that I'd had to prepare in Il Gnosh, too much faff for a bit of pasta. Everyone likes Spag Bol anyway don't they? Everyone I know anyway. First had it round our neighbours' flat on the estate where I grew up, tasted very continental. Until my mate insisted I cover it in HP sauce and then it was just like every other dinner. But tonight, no brown sauce, no Dolmio sauce, just proper cooking. Rae needs to eat better food, she's feeding two now. My baby.

I had it all planned, all nice and romantic. Dinner for two (or three), candles and I'd rented Titanic because I think that's what Rae said her favourite film was. I'd managed to get Amy to take the kids and stay with Mike and she seemed overly encouraging of my plans – I think I can guess why and I know, _I know_ she's right.

I'm a good dad, it's what I'm best it, it's what I've tried hardest at and this is no different. When you've got kids there's no room for selfishness, they come first whatever sacrifices you have to make.

I dished out the food, put the posh bread in the middle of the table and checked the clock again – her key would be in the door any second. My phone bleeped as I was pouring her some squash. Just as I was opening a text from her, there was a knock at the door.

_Babe, nan's had a stroke. Had to go to hospital, sorry for ruining ur plans. Luv u x_

I glanced over at the dinner and sighed. Despondently I opened the front door and didn't even speak before I turned my back and trudged into the kitchen. I heard him close the door and give a thoughtful tut as he surveyed the flat.

"This is all very romantic Stephen," Brendan said leaning on the wall that separates the kitchen and the living room.

I ignored him, loading the sink with all the used utensils.

Brendan sauntered over to the table. "Candles _and_ Bolognese. You're really pushing the boat out tonight,"

I wiped my hands on a tea towel and finally snapped. "Will you just go? Rae will be back any minute,"

He smirked to himself. "Judging by the phone call she had in Price Slice I'd say that was pretty unlikely,"

"Oh so you're spying on her now?" I folded my arms as he took a seat at the table.

"May I?" he said, picking up the knife and fork. "I'm starved,"

I dragged a hand through my hair in despair. I watched him twirl spaghetti like a pro and shovel messy forkful after forkful into his mouth. He had slithers of red on his moustache and he made short hums of approval. He was frustrating the hell out of me because despite my anger towards him, it made me feel good to see him enjoying it.

With his mouth full he turned to face me. "You're not going to eat? S'good."

"I know it's good," I said sulkily, plonking myself opposite him and keeping my eyes on my dinner. "I made it,"

I know he smiled; I didn't need to look up. I'd sensed that feeling in the air before. I hated it, I hated him. The way he so easily got me and made me accept him back into my home, into my life. I had always been weak, but he used this weakness always. I resented him for it but I couldn't stop myself. And it was awkward sitting at the table with the candles and the dinner I'd made for Rae, with him being his usual arsehole self and me trying to be angry still, trying to remember I'd given him up and I was moving on. Trying not to admit to loving this set up, loving him.

"No Mitzeee tonight then?" I said, mopping up the last of the sauce from my plate with a piece of bread. He knew I was jealous, there was little point in me trying to hide it in my questions.

He cocked an eyebrow. "Well she's not with me now," he said. He leant back in the chair and crossed his feet off to the side. "Starting to get on my nerves she is,"

I rolled my eyes standing and picking up the plates. When I went to pick up his, he pinned me with an intense stare.

"That's women for ya," he said and I knew full well what that meant.

I was tired of playing. I snatched the plate. "Not mine," I said defiantly, turning my back and dumping the plates in the sink.

"Of course," he said. As the moment ticked by I realised that would have been the perfect time to kick him out of the flat. I should have, but I didn't. Part of me wanted to, really did – just to throw him out for real, teach him a lesson, prove that I was serious: I'm with Rae, we're having a baby. End of.

Instead I let him stay, eat trifle and lick the cream from his finger. The custard on his moustache raised a reluctant smile from me and a nod of approval from him – he was winning the game like he always did.

"So we've had Bolognese – delicious by the way, trifle – I've had better, what's next on the agenda?"

He stood, skirted closely around me making my palms all clammy, but then diverted like a fly buzzing onto the next thing and the next. He picked up the rented DVD that rested on the arm of the couch.

He perused the front and back. "And they all lived happily, ever, after," he said punctuating the words in the way he always does.

"'Part from the iceberg," I said lifting it out of his hands.

"There is that, yeah." He watched me fold my arms again, it's all I could do to keep the barrier up. "We're not gonna watch it then?" he asked.

I scoffed, "_You_ want to watch _Titanic_?"

"Well you chose it,"

"It's Rae's favourite,"

"Ah,"

I hated talking about her with him. He was always so patronising and belittled her at every opportunity, I guess because he saw through it, through us, when I didn't allow myself to think about it.

I tried changing the subject.

"I've not even seen it," I said, putting the case on the table, "Not properly anyway. Me mate used to watch it just to see Kate Winslet with no clothes on,"

He raised his eyebrows.

I paused, seeing how far I could push it tonight. "But I 'spose you'd watch it for him." I pointed at the picture of Leonardo DiCaprio on the front. When I was at primary school the girls had gone mad over him. "He's your type," I continued although I wasn't sure now whether I was playing games or flirting, "Young looking, skinny,"

He fixed me with an unimpressed stare, chewing at a piece of gum. "And you think you know what my type is?"

"Me," I said, shaking for a single heartbeat.

He blinked. "We're finished Stephen," he said, but didn't move when I stepped that bit closer.

"I don't want to be finished."

He took my face in his hands. There was a flash of darkness there, but it quickly disappeared from his eyes. The suddenness of his lips against mine, almost knocked me from standing, but he kept hold of me, nearly lifting me off my feet. His hands tugged roughly at my hair, pulling with short spikes of pain but I could hardly feel it. Instead my body pulsed against his, feeling the full force of his kiss surge through me. He panted heavily, his nose pressed against my cheek as my hands loosened grip and I began unbuttoning my jeans.

He smiled against me, licking his tongue against mine long enough that I could still taste the sherry trifle. It was wrong, but felt impossibly right. Resisting him was an uphill battle and I'd lost so many times that it couldn't hurt to let him win again.

\

He was playing with my hair at the nape of my neck. It tickled. I kept my face down in the pillow just letting him carry on. I liked it; I think he did too. I always wanted him to talk to me in times like this. Didn't have to be grand gestures, just something. Maybe about what he was thinking or him and his past. But he didn't want to talk about it and maybe it was better I didn't know. It was just, I felt like I knew him – really well even – but actually I didn't know much at all.

I mean, I knew him and he knew me _intimately_. More than once had the words "Fuck! You're good," left his reddened mouth but that kind of compliment and coming were the closest I got to finding out what ticked away in that brain of his.

I stretched out my arm, feeling around for him for some kind of contact. He surprised me, took my hand between the two of his and just held it there. He didn't seem to like holding hands too much. Probably too gay. He would pin my hands above my head and squeeze them, but he'd never hold them. I looked at him, his eyes were softer, sleepier.

He beckoned me with his head and I tried to tone down my girlish grin as I scooted up next to him, cuddling into his warm chest.

**A/N: The brown sauce and spag bol is based on a friend of mine's eating habits. It's truly disgusting.**


End file.
